You and Me and Him (14 page)

“Ask away,” Tom says.

“Why hang out with Nash and me in the first place?” I ask. “I mean beyond working out unresolved issues with your brother.”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice. You guys hijacked me that first day.”

“True, but you had to know pretty quickly how the Nash thing was going to play out. And anyway, in general, why not aim higher?”

“Maggie, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Seriously. You come to this school, smart, funny, not bad-looking . . .”

Tom grins. “You think I’m good­-looking?”

“I said ‘not bad-looking.’ There’s a difference.”

He elbows me in the side, almost knocking me off the sidewalk.

“A big difference,” I say. “So anyway, you could use your skills to finesse your way into any group of friends in the school. What’s with the slumming?”

“Would you rather I defect to the A-list?” he asks.

“No.” I shake my head. “But I wonder why you don’t. You said yourself you had fun with Kayla and her friends the other night.”

“Well, she asked me out, and I didn’t want to be rude,” Tom says. “And if I’m honest, she seems like she might be sort of smart under all that giggling and flirting, but I don’t have that kind of time. It was okay, not a bad experience. But it’s not like when you and I hang out. With you it’s different. Normal.”

“Normal?” I laugh. “I don’t get called that very often. If Nash and I seem normal, you must have run into some real freaks in your travels.” Tom laughs too, and for a minute it feels like Seattle again. “So, what you’re saying is that all your moving around has taught you the wisdom of shunning the popular in favor of the drastically less popular?”

“Let’s say my experiences have taught me that assholes come in all shapes, sizes, and social classes.”

“Ah, yes, your vast and worldly experiences.”

“Well, I think I can claim a little more of that than someone who’s lived in Cedar Ridge her whole life.”

“Ouch.”

Tom looks at me sideways. “The truth is that I have been to nine new schools in ten years. Every time I moved, I had to make new friends. When you’re little, nobody cares about popularity. There are always one or two kids on the outside, the nose-picker or the one who smells funny, but in general everybody’s friends with everybody else.”

I nod.

“A few years ago, making friends got harder. I had to start . . . positioning myself, I guess, if I wanted to make friends. And I had to start working at it. Had to make myself more likable. Sometimes I set my sights on the ‘popular kids’ or whatever, sometimes not.”

“Did you just use air quotes?” I ask, stopping.

He scowls at me.

“Sorry. Please continue.”

“Anyway, I never thought that much about it, until a couple years back. First day, new school, a nice guy named Jim is the first one to approach me. Sort of like you and Nash did. He’s kind of dorky, but so am I, so we talk comic books and sci-fi movies, and things are great. We hang out for a couple days, and then I meet some other people, people who also seem nice. I’m having fun and kind of lose track of Jim, but I don’t think much of it since I’ve hit it off with these other kids.”

“The ‘popular kids’?” I ask, using air quotes myself.

“Do you want to hear this or not?” Tom stops outside a dark storefront a couple of blocks from the restaurant.

I clamp my lips together and nod.

“So these other kids seem great and we’re all having fun, and then one day we’re in the hall and there’s Jim alone by his locker. I feel the mood shift. The guys I’m with start elbowing each other and whispering.”

“Oh. Not good.”

“Yeah. So pretty soon they start saying stuff to Jim. This wasn’t just teasing—this was bad. Crap about his mom, and things they want to do to his sister, and how he’s a fag and a sicko. They keep going, and I’m talking nasty, awful shit. I don’t say anything, but I don’t stop them, either. Jim ignores them at first, just keeps getting books out of his locker, but eventually they get to him, and he faces us.”

I am still now, hands shoved in my pockets.

“I will never forget the look on his face when he turned around. He was resigned, weary. Like he knew the script and was just waiting for the scene to be over. I’d seen that same look on my brother’s face before. But this time I was one of the people making someone feel that way.” Tom looks away from me. “Anyway, he said stuff, and they said stuff, and I stood there like an absolute idiot. And then somebody grabbed Jim, pushed him into his open locker, and shut the door. He starts banging right away, but these new ‘friends’ of mine”—he uses the air quotes again, but I don’t tease him this time—“these guys walk away laughing and patting themselves on the back.”

“What did you do?” I ask. My voice comes out a little squeaky.

“I just stood there. I was so surprised by it all. It happened so fast. Jim was banging on the inside of the locker and screaming, and the guys were disappearing around the corner, and I just . . . stood there.”

“You didn’t let him out? You didn’t help him?”

“Some girl came down the hall and tried to get Jim out. She had to talk him down enough to get him to give her the combination, and when he got out he was so angry, I thought he might beat the shit out of me. So I left.”

“That’s it? You left him there?”

“That’s it.”

“Wow. That’s . . . so you didn’t even apologize?”

Tom looks away. “Yeah, I know. Not my finest moment. None of those assholes ever talked to me again, and neither did Jim. And I don’t blame them.”

“So the moral of the story is everyone sucks?” I’m a little confused about how this relates to my original question.

“Not exactly,” Tom says. “I guess the moral of the story is social status doesn’t make people worthy. It doesn’t make them unworthy, either. Since then, I go with my gut and spend time with people who seem interesting, whether they are at the top of the food chain or the bottom.”

I nod. Maybe I’m a little suspicious of Kayla because she’s popular. I know Nash is. She’s been nothing but nice the last few weeks, but it’s weird how I keep waiting for the punch line with her. At the same time, I get a little psyched at the idea we could be friends again. If I go with my gut, as Tom suggests, I’m still confused. Part of my gut is telling me it could happen, but another part keeps kicking my brain with steel-toed boots, telling me she’s after something more selfish. Tom and I walk along in silence for a bit, and after a while I bump him with my shoulder and say, “Thanks, Tom.”

“For what? All I did was reveal, twice in one evening, what a spineless idiot I can be.”

“For telling me the truth, and for . . . I guess for thinking I’m interesting enough to spend time with.” We stop, and I give an involuntary shiver as the wind pushes some dry leaves up and around us.

Tom takes off his wool coat and wraps it around me, then pulls me into a sort of hug and starts rubbing his hands up and down my back to warm me up. I hope the bulk of our coats will camouflage my body’s bumps and lumps enough that Tom doesn’t notice them.

I smell his clove gum and the clean woolly scent of his collar. I have never been this close to a guy before, not anyone besides Nash. And Nash never makes my insides go haywire the way Tom does. That ember is back in the base of my stomach. I feel myself sort of relax into Tom, and he rests his chin on the top of my head.

“Hmmmm,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, Maggie.” Tom pulls me a little tighter, slowing the pace of his hands. The stroking feels less practical now, more about pleasure than warmth.

I go from relaxed to alert, unsure of what I should do. It seems like Tom is kind of, well, making a move. And I like it, like standing in his arms. Like that my senses are wide awake whenever he touches me. But there are too many things complicating the purity of this moment. Besides, I’m beginning to see Tom has a gift for making whoever he’s with feel this way. Still, I let myself enjoy it for a few more seconds.

“Maybe we should go get some food,” I say, pulling back from him and handing him his coat. I clench my arms around my torso and turn in the direction of PhePhiPho.

It takes a few seconds, but Tom falls into step alongside me. I don’t look, but I can feel that he’s watching me as we walk. After half a block of silence, I resort to page one of the dating handbook: I ask him a question about himself.

“So, I am getting to know you well enough to know about your Dungeons and Dragons phase, your torture and locker imprisonment of innocent students—”

“Too soon,” Tom says.

“Sorry. Your occasional use of air quotes. But I have one more question that will seal my growing conviction that you are more than just a pretty face: that you could be an authentic dork like me.”

“Uh-oh,” Tom says, but he’s smiling. “What’s the question?”

“How many action figures do you own?”

“Oh, no. I’ve had enough humiliation for one day. Besides, you owe me several embarrassing tidbits about yourself,” he says. “Until we even the score a bit, we will not be discussing my action figures.”

Nash hasn’t contacted me, so when I get on the bus the next morning, I assume he’s still angry. My eyes dart to our usual spot. The fall sunlight is slanting in the dirty bus windows, bathing Nash in a diffused glow. He’s left room for me to sit next to him, but I stop in the aisle, not sure if I should take the empty seat.

Nash smiles and pats it, inviting me back to my former status quo without a word.

“Hi.” I slide into the familiar seat.

“Miss me?” Nash says, squeezing my knee.

“Yeah. Um, why the warm fuzzies after so much cold shoulder?”

“I know. I went off the map. Sorry. It’s just—You know me. I get a little—”

“Touchy? Insecure? Unstable?”

Nash drops his head. “Again. I know. But enough about me.” He pats my knee again. “How was your dinner with Tom last night?”

I’m not letting him off the hook that easily. It takes a while, but I wait him out.

Nash only tolerates silence if he’s the one in control of it. After a minute he sighs. “So, here’s the thing: I was really . . . I like him so much, and you guys are getting along so well, and you and Kayla are acting like friends again. I think I could survive Kayla stealing Tom, but I don’t want her getting her hooks into you again. She almost destroyed you last time. I can’t lose you, Mags. I couldn’t bear that.” Nash puts his hands on his knees. His knuckles go white for a minute, then relax. He takes a deep breath. “Anyway, I’m sorry. I know you’re smarter than that now. I know we’re solid.” He doesn’t look at me, but I can see the last couple days have been as rough on him as on me. Maybe rougher. I’m really all Nash has.

I grab his pinkie with mine, and we do this weird little pinkie handshake we’ve been doing since fourth grade. Our teacher had us pair up for math that year, and when we got it all sorted, she had us do the pinkie shake and tell our math buddy, “You are my pinkie partner for life!” It was dorky, but Nash and I like dorky, so we’re still doing it seven years later.

“Don’t worry, Nash,” I say. “You are soooo not replaceable, my friend. I admit I’m curious about Kayla’s recent overtures, but I’m being cautious. I don’t intend to let her crush me this time.”

“Good,” says Nash. “Because I don’t intend to pick up the little Maggie-shaped pieces again. And if Kayla knows what’s good for her, she’ll back off Tom too. She needs to go back to one of her usual Neanderthals.”

I feel a tug to tell Nash what Tom told me last night, that Nash and Tom are not going to live happily ever after, but the bus doesn’t seem quite the right setting to share information that will break his heart. I dig into my bag and pull out a breakfast bar.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see that.” He bites into it and chews slowly.

“I have a couple more in my bag, but they’re probably a little squished.”

“Yes, please!” Nash says. I hand them over. Nash looks at me. “Wait, why do you have more than one? Have you been handing these out like they’re normal cookies?”

“Never!” I say with mock horror. “These are a Nash Taylor exclusive. Nobody gets these but you.” I lean in and whisper, “But I know you’ve been sharing them with Tom.”

Nash covers his mouth and looks up at me through his long dark lashes. “Sorry. Are you mad?”

“Don’t be an idiot. Of course not!”

Nash nods, relaxing again. “So, what have you been doing?” You gotta love a guy who jumps from a multiday tiff back into normal peacetime relations with barely a breath in between.

“Oh, the usual: school, work, missing you.”

Nash sinks down in his seat and motions for me to do the same. “What are we going to do about Tom?” he whispers.

“What do you see as the main challenge?” I ask, half hoping Nash’s crush will pass before I have to break the bad news.

“Twofold,” he says. “First: If the usual pattern ensues and he doesn’t want to date me, can we bear to remain friends with him? And second: Either way, how do we keep him out of the clutches of Kayla and her minions?”

“Hmmm.” I organize my thoughts. “So you really do think Kayla is a threat?”

“Oh, Mags, please!” Nash says. “She’s been stalking the guy since noon on the first day of school. And if we leave him battered and bloody, there will be a feeding frenzy. Poor Tom won’t know what hit him.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” I say. “He’s kind of the innocent bystander here. He comes to this school, the odd couple latches on before he even gets in the door—”

“I prefer ‘unique.’”

“Fine, the ‘unique’ couple become his constant companions, without, I might add, giving him any say in the matter.” Nash nods in agreement, his face thoughtful.

“Anyway, the poor guy gets caught up in the very confusing politics of our particular brand of friendship through no fault of his own.”

“Not entirely true,” Nash interrupts again. “If he weren’t so appealing in every single way, this never would have happened.”

I roll my eyes, but the bus ride is getting short. “Yes, okay. We can blame him for his general hotness and likability. But Cedar Ridge’s overly enthusiastic reaction to that: not his fault.”